


Rosenkrantz

by DraconianPrince



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Also Richard just looks like a vampire, Be gentle with me I haven't written Tillchard before, Blood, But yes I am obsessed with Tillchard, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I took inspiration from Du Riechst So Gut '98, Injury, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nachzehrer, Pining, Richard has white eyes because I'm obsessed with the look, Richard is kind of weird, Somewhat loosely based off of Hallomann, Somewhat loosely based off of Was Ich Liebe, Sort Of, Supernatural Elements, Till has a cat, Till has to hunt a vampire, Tillchard - Freeform, Violence, i need to write fight scenes more often, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraconianPrince/pseuds/DraconianPrince
Summary: Till, while travelling in pursuit of employment, comes across a village plagued by the fear of an alleged nachzehrer, and is tasked by a village elder to slay it.--A nachzehrer is a component of German folklore, and can be equated somewhat to a vampire - but is somewhat more similar to a lich. A nachzehrer is formed typically through suicide, plague, or accidental death. Upon the death of its human form, it arises again and consumes its own body, its burial shroud, and possibly other living individuals. When a nachzehrer rises, the health and spirits of their family in life drain as well, fueling the nachzehrer's power.I've combined the more traditional sense of a vampire with the nachzehrer folktale, mostly through convenience. I suppose it wouldn't make much sense in the context of Rosenkrantz for Richard to be a grotesque, body-feeding animal for the purposes that this story serves.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 57
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

Preface 

_Wood shavings fall to the floor, gathering in a pile and forming quite an impressive mound between the two, worn boots of a woman. Her foot taps rhythmically along to the tune of a lute, accompanied by a voice which sings drearily among the stifled whispers of the innkeeps._

_“Have you heard of the man  
Who died long ago,  
A man who sank to the stones   
And arose in the snow?” _

_A man settles before her, seeking some place to rest in the midst of the crowded hall. His shoulders shake and his hands worry over one another, and several moments pass before the frost leaves his bones well enough to notice his own intrusion. “I apologize,” he begins, shifting to the end of the bench to give the woman her space._

_She smiles, and continues to whittle._

_“Stay,” the woman whispers, firelight dancing across her face — wrinkled and wisened and amused — as she uses her boot to sweep the wood shavings into the fire. For moments, they crackle, and her eyes narrow in contemplation as she turns her attention back to the young man. “A new face. Business?”_

_“Passing through,“ he replies, drawing a cloak closer over his shoulders and simultaneously attempting to work the stiffness from his joints, “looking for work.”_

_The woman tuts, and leaves them both in resolute silence for longer than the young man trusts. Before he can offer words past parted lips, she has returned to whittling, “I wouldn’t look too far for work, if I were you. Keep to tempering blades and tanning leather like the blacksmiths ask. The keep has nothing for you.”_

_“And how so?” The young man asks, and the woman draws in a sharp breath._

_“The keep will send you to your death.” The lute continues to play, plucking at strings and drawing attention once more._

_“Hands unsteady  
Heart staked to the door,  
Soul abandoned by God,   
Body lost to the moor?” _

_“Who are they singing about?” He diverts, and the woman’s hands stop._

_She takes minutes to respond, as if recalling a word mentioned only in her childhood, “A nachzehrer.”_

_“Pardon?”_

_“A nachzehrer. A creature who breathes after death, but is no longer living.” Her lips draw thin and her eyes grow wary, “One in particular. He’s rumored to live outside the city. Decades ago, the keep sent a militia out there to kill it… you see, the nachzehrer is a godless thing — when a nachzehrer is born, it craves the strength of those it loved in life. They’re relentless there onwards, and it’s rumored that they feed to keep… well, I suppose living is the only word you can use. The militia travelled to kill this nachzehrer, and not a single one of them returned. People, from then on, have grown to fear the nachzehrer. They fasten their windows shut and grate their chimneys. No child, no woman, no man, no animal is allowed out past dark.”_

_“A wolf born from the fires  
Of hell, bright and bold  
With eyes as white as the ice   
That encircles its soul,”_

_“Has anybody seen this nachzehrer since?” The man shifts closer on the bench, blinking only when the woman drags her blade across the bit of wood._

_“There have been rumors…” she breathes, “Children, running into their homes with tears on their cheeks, wailing to their mothers about how terrible he truly is. They’ve said he’s a beast, larger than the strongest man you’ve ever seen. In some stories, he stands ten feet tall. In others, he’s a towering twenty. His eyes are said to be white, blind in color but missing nothing… The stories go that his teeth are longer and sharper than daggers, fitting grotesquely into his mouth and dripping with the blood of his previous hunts. His claws are sharper, though, tearing horses at the seams and dragging them back for later.” She turns, and after a brief moment the man realizes it’s because he’s gawking._

_“And where did he come from?” His voice is much more hoarse than he expected._

_She mulls the question over for moments, “Tale has that he was the previous innkeeper's son. The youngest of four children, with two elder sisters and one brother. Oh, the family had hopes for him. They raised him up, however poorly it was said to be, and they suited him up to join the militia. Taught him to fight, taught him to lie. Deep pockets and hubris taught him espionage, though… and soon enough he was feeding papers to other sides. They found out, of course, and stormed the inn looking for him. The boy was nowhere to be found, though, and by the time they’d tracked and cornered him…” her face screwed up, knife turning in angles against the wood in her hand, “he’d slit his throat with a skinning knife. I suppose it’s a more honorable death than being strung from an apple tree, but it’s a godless way to go. Close your mouth, boy.”_

_The young man did as he was told, unaware that his lips had ever parted._

_“They took his body and tossed it into a shallow grave in the moor. By the following week, his entire family had taken ill. By the week after that…” she pointed towards a window, and just over the dusty road a cemetery stood out against the evening sun. “Several men went out to find the body and see if it was a curse, but by the time they’d found the plot, all that was left was a divot in the earth.”_

_“When the night wind does howl  
And the children close their eyes,   
Empty be the earth   
Where the nachzehrer lies.” _

_The man nodded slowly, drawing in his cheeks and staring quietly at the wood chips on the floor. With another sweep of her boot, the old woman discarded them into the hearth._

_“You said you were looking for work, did you?” She doesn’t look at him, and instead studies the wood held in her left hand._

_“I was,” he contemplates his words, “and I still am.”_

_“Mm…” her chest rises and falls heavily, “And what does your mother call you?”_

_“Till,” he answers, brows furrowing, “though I suppose strangers call me that more often than she.”_

_“Till,” she repeats, “there is a job for you here.” Turning to throw her leg over the bench, her arms cross on the tabletop. The wooden object she sets down draws his eyes, and for moments he forgets that she is speaking, “Kill the nachzehrer. The boy named Zven should have died long ago, and I’m asking that you put him to rest.”_

_Between them sits a stake, honed from dogwood and bearing the scores of a skinning knife. The bard in the corner strums a chord as the woman stands from her seat, and before Till can contest her demand, she has disappeared into the bustle, leaving him with the crackling fire and the melodic ballad._

_“Oh tell me, my boy,  
Could you tell me thing:   
Will you still be of God  
When the nightingale sings?”_


	2. I

“If you’re not renting a room, get out.” A young woman demanded, waving the cloth in her hand towards a raucous group of men stationed by the door. They drained their tankards, muttered in hushed insults, and soon enough set the metal cups aside to fulfill her request. 

“Settle down, settle down.” One waved his hand, roughened and scarred by decades of swinging hammers and occasionally missing his target, “We’re on our way, Berit. No need to get fussy.” Immediately, he was met with the cloth swatting him in the face, and with another round of ‘settle down’s and ‘tell your mother I said hello’s, they were all at the door. 

Till had loitered by the fireplace until Berit had sent the men off, and with a slight nod he stepped towards the door to follow them. “Hey!” Berit called, stopping Till in his tracks and prompting him to turn and face her, “Are you from around here? Jarvia doesn’t usually talk to my tenants.” Tankards clinked on the table as Berit dried them, sliding across the surface to group together and separate clean from dirty. 

“No, I suppose not. I couldn’t find work in my village… well, none that I had much skill in.” He laughed through the wave of self-awareness that washed over him, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling and exhaling through his teeth,”My father is a poet and my mother tends the house, so not many people were too keen on employing me as a result. It takes too long to train, and, well…” Till swept his arm out, flourishing his hand and then promptly drawing it back to his chest, “I decided to seek work where a reputation of poor contribution didn’t preceed me.” 

Berit huffed, “You’re doing a poor job by telling me, you know?” 

Till paused, rocking back and forth on his feet and seeking a coherent set of words to pull together. Berit laughed, to his relief, and shook her head, “So you’re passing through?” 

“I am.” 

“Well, the keep has a curfew, and I’m afraid wandering about, as well as being new, will get you arrested. Do you know how to chop wood?” 

Till nodded and watched as Berit set her cloth down, reaching down into the pockets of her apron for a key and placing it on the table, “Forty marks down, and your hand in chopping firewood for the hearth, and you can stay. Otherwise, I would suggest a lovely bridge leading out of the city. Flowers grow close to the river. Very soothing to look at while you freeze to death.” 

The silence alone was enough of an acceptance, and by the time Till’s words had caught up to the innate nodding of his head, Berit had turned to the counter and begun stacking bowls to be washed, “Good. That key unlocks the second room on the left.” She pointed towards the staircase mounted along the wall, with stairs that creaked and groaned just by looking at them. 

“Thank you,” Till offered, picking up the key from the table and storing it away safely into his pocket before counting out the payment to put in its place. Pushing open the door, he was displeased to find that the air was much colder after finally warming himself up. With a heavy shudder, Till seized the reins of a horse and pulled it forward, leading it away from the inn and to a stable where a boy stood closing up shop. After a short negotiation and a rate that Till knew was swindling, but was much too tired to protest against, a spot somehow freed up for the animal. Till stepped over to the side bag, unstrapping the latches and opening it up. The bag was lined in thick furs, which blended smoothly into a breathing mass nestled deep into the compartment. Slipping his hand in, he gathered up the creature sleeping inside, which stretched at its new exposure to the air and dropped its jaw in a yawn. 

“I know, Shmeeve.” He consoled softly, pulling aside the lapel of his coat and tucking the cat against his chest. It purred and burrowed down, seeking shelter from the freezing gust of air brought by Till’s exit from the stable. As the sun sank lower, he returned to the inn and sought out his room. 

As if sensing the warmth of the room, Shmeeve popped her head out of the coat and scrambled to get free, landing soundly on the bed and taking immediate residence on the pillow. 

“Oh,” Till’s voice was unsurprised, but held a demeanor of choice-less compromise, “Alright, Shmeeve.” Shouldering off his cloak, he hung it into the closet, following with his boots and traveling coat. His gloves came next, and then finally the strap of a dagger. Settling onto the bed, Till pushed Shmeeve just enough to free the smallest space for his head, patting the cat’s belly and turning over to lull into sleep. 

\--

Till awoke with a start the next morning, sitting up in the bed and fixing his eyes on the wall opposite from himself. Shmeeve lifted her head and arched herself away from the bed, tentatively stepping up onto his thigh and draping herself within petting distance. Exhaling heavily, he stood from the bed and drew his coat over his shoulders, relieved to see the sun well over the rooftops already. “Come, Shmeeve,” he beckoned, descending the creaky staircase and stepping forward into the common hall. Berit was ladling soup into bowls, wafting the scent of potatoes and cabbage through the inn in sheets. 

He isn’t hungry, though, and quietly passed by her without a word. In the corner, the old woman -- “Jarvia,” Till reminded himself -- sat with her knife and a piece of wood, provoking a stark awareness of the sharpened piece in his own pocket. 

The inn door wailed as he stepped out into the street, and Shmeeve voiced her discontent with the half-melted snow blanketed across the ground. Till leaned down so she could leap onto his shoulder, and she happily obliged. The blacksmith pounds on an anvil across the way, stool pulled back enough that he’s comforted by the roaring fire. Adjacent to the inn, a woman hoists a bag of flour over her shoulder and enters a bakery, a young girl trailing along behind her and grasping at her skirts. “Mama,” Till heard her call the woman to attention, and the mother turned to look at him. Instantly, she cast a wave in his direction, a smile sweeping over her face before she and the child disappeared into the house. 

Before he had the chance to take another step across the street, the blacksmith had looked up, stepping around his anvil and crossing his arms over his chance. Till expected a fight, but the blacksmith nodded cordially, “So you’re the one Jarvia spoke about… and you’re going to kill the nachzehrer? Alone?”

“So I’m told,” Till knew he didn’t sound certain in the least, but the blacksmith seemed to appreciate the answer.  
“May God smile on you, then.” Nodding once, he stepped back towards his shop and lifted his hammer once more. Metal clanged as the cross-peen struck the blade in his hand, and Till offered a curt salutation before hurrying off towards the stables. As he continued on, another man stepped from the medicine shop, armed with more inquiry regarding the hunt for the nachzehrer. Till picked up the pace down the path, reaching the stable with impressive speed and removing his horse’s lead from the post. The stableboy rounded the corner, prompting Till to deposit Shmeeve into the side satchel and mount the horse with little delay. 

He wasn’t fond of the repetitive confirmation that he was about to ride to his death, considering it was only a reminder that he didn’t know how he was going to get there, much less what he was going to do when he was finally staring eye-to-eye with the creature. Jarvia’s description rang in his head, leaving him nauseous and paranoid of the woods framing the city. “Where,” Till interrupted the feared question forming on the stableboy’s tongue, “is this place that the Nachzehrer lives?”

Instantly, the stableboy went quiet, pulling an answer from Till’s haste and reaching for the lead on the horse. Guiding it from the stable, the boy trudged through the mud and slush, crossing a stone bridge and stopping on the other side. He pointed, tracing the shape of a manor looming through the trees. “It’s a bit farther than it looks, really.” Looking up at Till, he nodded and worried at his lip, “The trees around it are a bit dead, so in the winter you can see it real well.” Pausing, the boy passed the rein up to Till, who flipped it back and rested it in his lap. “Are you really going up there?”

“Well…” Till began, busying himself with fastening the latch more securely on Shmeeve’s bag, “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” The horse shuffled its feet, impatient with standing still in the cold. With a soft hush, he pet the side of its neck in an effort to soothe it. “Jarvia seems to have convinced the entire town I’m on my way to slay it now.”

“Are you?”

The silence following the question was filled only by a sharp wind, and after several minutes of putting off his answer, Till nodded, “Unfortunately.”


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got around to publishing this part! I'm hoping that there will be less of a delay in the next one, and I apologize for making those who enjoy this story wait so long. Again, if you enjoy this story, please leave kudos and a comment! Any comments, short or long, absolutely make my day :) Thank you and take care of yourselves!

Till’s horse tread the path leading from the village, seeming displeased as the cobbled stones faded away into dirt and sticks. The male urged her along, however, reaching out to stroke his fingers against her mane, “Steady on, Dame.” The horse shook its head but continued its tempo, soothed by her owner’s voice. 

Shmeeve poked her head out of the satchel and offered an impatient mewl, which was met by Till sitting properly upright on the horse’s back, “I’m sure it won’t be much longer, Shmeeve. We have a job.” Looking down to the cat, he raised his brows and smiled a bit. “After we finish, and after we get paid, we can buy some nice scrap meat and go fishing by the lake. I’m sure we’ll pull up something just delightful, and you can eat to your heart’s desire.” Shmeeve purred, sinking back into her satchel and tossing about a bit to resume her nap. 

The trees twisted and turned for what seemed like hours until the worn path disappeared entirely, leaving Till to guess where sharp sticks and bear traps may have been placed by the city dwellers. It didn’t seem out of pocket for any of them, and it left Till gripping Dame’s reins with a white-knuckled paranoia. Inconvenience of manually hauling his belongings around set aside, Dame and Shmeeve were his two most loyal companions, and no nachzehrer was worth burying one of them. “Careful,” he coaxed her along, eventually deciding to dismount and pull her along by the lead. With somebody in front of her, Dame moved much more willingly, and before long the forest tapered off into a vast smattering of dying, overgrown hedges. Till stopped as the trees ended, unlatching Shmeeve’s satchel and taking her out. Patting Dame’s shoulder, he soon led her a bit of a ways back into the trees and stationed her there, returning to the unkempt property of the alleged nachzehrer. 

To say he was unimpressed would have been an understatement, but he set Shmeeve down and proceeded with a breath-bating caution. Shmeeve was smart enough to stay close and quiet, sniffing along the path and stepping in Till’s shadow. 

A garden, overgrown and full of decrepit, dried vines sat anterior to the manor, having once housed roses and nightshade from the looks of the leaves and rot-stains on the stones. Till wondered if they came back around in the spring, when the weather was warmer and not wielding the threat of frostbite, but from the abandoned state of the garden he couldn’t imagine they did. He followed the stones up to an iron grate, bracing his hand against the gate lever and leaning his weight into it to slide the mechanism down. With a heave, the metal scraped and unlocked, gaining him entrance along the walkway and up to the towering mahogany doors. 

Grime and moss covered the wood, dampening the rich colors into a dreary shade that Till could only describe as mud. Shmeeve curled away in discontent, but Till held his breath and reached for the handle of the door. To his relief, and after a couple of tugs, the door finally gave and he was able to haul it open, casting light into the dimly lit entry room. Dust showered down from the archway, leaving Till to stifle down a fit of coughs as he slipped through the minute crack and into the stagnant air of the foyer. Shmeeve sneezed and Till’s lungs rattled, crackling with every calculated breath. 

Six windows, with three on either side of the entry door, stood from the floor to the ceiling, sweeping the area in stained light and giving Till just enough to see as he searched for a wall sconce or a candle to light and carry through the rest of the house. After several minutes of searching, he was able to locate a candle plate, rummaging about in one of the small tables lining the room for a flint. The candle sparked to life after a couple of strikes, illuminating the derelict walls with candlelight far too warm for the atmosphere they produced. As Till looked up, he was met with a large portrait of a man, draped in fine silks and furs with precious gems decorating his ears. The eyes, oceanic blue and unyielding, seemed to follow him, voicing a silent discontent for Till’s intrusion. Till was inclined to apologize, but decided against it — there was nobody there but him and Shmeeve, and he believed that it would be ridiculous if he did. 

Turning away from the painting, Till shuddered and held his arm up, sweeping the candle holder out in front of himself and searching for some sign that any creature, nachzehrer or not, had inhabited the place in the last few years. All he found were the occasional smears in the thick coat of dust on the floor and tufts of what looked like dog hair, but Till accredited it to wild animals and didn’t think much of it. What he found most interesting, however, was the dark material wedged in deep between the floorboards. Sitting down on the second-to-last stair, Till shifted to unstrap his dagger and wedge it between the wood, pushing the blade down and away to dislodge some of the gelatinous residue. Placing the candle on the floor, he lifted the dagger to study it. 

Immediately, he recognized the brownish tint of dried blood from his childhood apprenticeship under the town butcher and released the knife, sending it clattering to the ground. Shmeeve, previously interested in her own investigation, jumped away and stepped around the dagger to sit on the step between Till, sneezing through the dust kicked up from the man’s surprise. 

He paused as a set of boards at the top of the stairs creaked, breaths slow and silent while he listened. Carefully, Till leaned forward and picked the knife up again, holding a finger to his lips in signal to Shmeeve to keep quiet. The descent up the stairs was slow, fingers tracing against the banister to support the bulk of his weight in an effort not to disturb the boards. Shmeeve trailed behind him, fur on her hackles raised, ears perked. 

When he finally reached the top, Till halted, holding his breath and listening for any sign that the previous movement wasn’t a figment of his imagination. None came, however, and with slight indignation he lowered the blade. “If we run into a wild animal, I’m counting on you to protect me.” He laughed softly as he looked down at Shmeeve, but the cat remained perched on the top step, crouched down and listening. Blaming the behavior on a mouse or other small rodent, Till continued forward, squinting in the newfound darkness of the second floor. It was somehow dustier than the foyer, and he repeatedly cleared his throat, sweeping his free arm out in front of him to keep from running into a wall or door frame. 

Marble statues and Persian carpets stretched down the main hallway, adding a regality that seemed deeply out of place in such a dilapidated building. Many more paintings covered the walls of the corridor, though primarily consisted of forests, vales, and tumultuous seas, with frames made of gold and small pearl inlay. Till longed for the candle he’d abandoned in his investigation, straining his eyes to make out the fine details of the artwork. 

A bird fluttered in the rafters and Till started, holding his dagger out once more and only relaxing into laughter when he realized how silly the reaction was. “Nachzehrer,” he shook his head, stepping away from the wall and turning to face the opposite side, “a bed tale for naughty children, I think.” Till ventured across the carpet, reaching a balcony that oversaw the foyer and skimming his fingertips over the wooden spindles. “Don’t you think so, Shmeeve?” Shmeeve was silent, staring down the corridor. 

With a heavy sigh, Till slipped his dagger back into the sheath and clipped the buckle, carding his hands through his hair to stare out over the edge of the balcony. “You know, Shmeeve, we could fix this place up and live in it ourselves. Anybody who lived here,” he turned his head to lock onto the portrait on the bottom floor, “has probably died and rotted away.” Running his fingertips over the lip of the railing, Till studied the collected dust and then wiped it onto his shirt, “or has taken very poor care of it, at the least. Nobody young, and definitely nobody with a respectable companion.” Till tutted and crossed his arms, leaning forward against the balcony railing to properly survey the lower floor. 

Shmeeve’s head snapped back at the sound of wood splintering, jumping to her feet once more in a futile response to the railing giving away. Inertia pulled Till forward, but a hand gripping the collar of his shirt pulled him back. Staggering on the balcony platform, Till wheezed and grabbed the first patch of solid wall his hand touched, immediately backing against it and fumbling for the dagger on his thigh. 

What met him, though, was a man — prowling on his knees and leaning back against his heels to cautiously watch Till. If Till’s head wasn’t pulsing with the sympathetic response to sprint back down the stairs, he possibly could have connected the man before him to the portrait in the foyer. Instead, he held the dagger out at the other, who fixated milky white eyes onto the shininess of the blade, and rasped as steadily as he could, “Who the hell are you?” 

The man parted his lips and seemed to contemplate Till’s question, drawing himself into a standing position as his expression pulled into a vague, yet ominous nonetheless, smile, “Richard, I believe…” 

Till lifted his chin to speak, but he was cut off by a hand reaching out to seize his dagger by the blade, tossing it flimsily off the balcony. 

“I also believe that you’re intruding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got around to publishing this part! I'm hoping that there will be less of a delay in the next one, and I apologize for making those who enjoy this story wait so long. Again, if you enjoy this story, please leave kudos and a comment! Any comments, short or long, absolutely make my day :) Thank you and take care of yourselves!


	4. III

Till’s breath caught in his chest at the distant clattering of metal against wood, watching as the man before him squared his shoulders back and leaned forward once more into a crouch, gaze nothing short of bloodthirsty. 

In one swift moment, his lower body jerked, connecting the toe of his boot to Richard’s jaw. Richard hit the ground with a wheeze, scuffling about and scratching at the wood of the balcony to keep from toppling over the edge. Till stepped away from the wall, searching his pockets as fast as he could in hopes of a miracle. Ultimately, he turned up empty handed, arm snapping from his side to shield his face as the other kicked off of the ground and leapt at him. With a thud, they both hit the ground, Richard hissing and straddling his chest to scratch at any inch of skin he could find. Till kept his arms up, finding a break in the other’s attacks to throw a punch. 

Following a sharp crack, Richard reeled back and grasped at his face, cupping a handful of blood that poured from his nose and dripped down to join the dust on the floorboards. Till swung again, but this time his attack was countered, blood dripping into his eyes from the seething creature leaned over him. 

If ever there were a hell-bringing incantation, it was echoing from Richard then — slipping in between the clouded, adrenaline-fueled thoughts jumbling about in Till’s mind. Nails scratched across his cheek once, and then twice, filling his eyes with tears and overwhelming him with the scent of iron-rich liquid. 

Stretching his arms up, Till grasped at the fabric of his assailant’s collar, drawing it away in a desperate attempt to close around Richard’s throat. 

Richard clawed at his arms, throwing his body weight to the side to counter Till’s efforts of putting him against the floor. With a snarl, Richard dropped his hands to thread into Till’s hair, striking his skull against the floorboards until Till’s grip relaxed. It wasn’t until Till’s hands fell against his chest that Richard released him, scuffling back and staring down at the man between his knees.

Panting, Richard looked around the hallway. The banister brandished a garishly man-shaped break, the floor was coated in splintered wood, blood spattered itself onto the boards like macabre confetti, and to top it all off… The keep would be sending a militia for whoever this was for sure. 

“You people.” Richard breathed, sniffling past broken bones and finding immediately that it was a motion to be regretted, “You people…” Leaning down, he skimmed his fingertips delicately against the gashes he’d left behind. It was indiscernible where his own blood ended and Till’s began, but his fingers lifted to his lips nonetheless. There was no use letting a meal go to waste, especially considering the people had become wise enough not to send their men to their deaths. 

As if exposed to a bright light, Richard’s pupils constricted, eyes flickering back and forth over Till’s face and searching for some explanation that would provide logic to the sudden intrigue forming in Richard’s mind. 

Human sin is a potent ingredient, modifying the taste of anything it touches and putrefying it into irreparable carrion. 

It didn’t seem right to Richard, when given the scarred, roughened individual beneath him, that the blood he’d tasted was absent of any marking of cruelty. A man so quick to attack when cornered like a rabid animal, and yet, there was nothing. 

Richard wiped his hand on the front of Till’s shirt and seized his arm, hauling him up in the same movement that brought himself to his feet. He found, quite quickly, that Till was much heavier than he expected, but with a great deal of effort soon managed to heave him through the hallway. 

—

Till awoke to the sound of his ears ringing. Cold metal pressed against his cheek, barely soothing the angry lacerations pressed deep into his skin from the struggle barely floating through his memory. Groaning, he lifted his head from its resting place and stared down at the platter, analyzing his face in the surface reflection. 

His face was bruised, hair matted to his temple by a mixture of fresh ichor and cruor, and irises thinned in a way that likely explained the distinct blur in his vision. Till felt sick to his stomach, and temporarily considered placing his head back down on the welcoming metal of the tray. 

Suddenly, he became aware of a tearing sound, followed by the sole of a boot against a table’s surface. Turning his gaze up, he froze almost immediately. 

Blood pooled across the table, forming a puddle around the crouched figure of his assailant and a rather large creature. He blinked twice, as hard as he could, and his eyes focused enough to recognize the animal as a deer. 

The man crouched upon the table threw his head back and pulled with it a strip of meat, sinew snapping between his teeth. As he chewed, his hands worked to separate skin from muscle, baring room for another hungry bite. 

Till produced a strangled sound, palms pushing against the table in a sympathetic response to run as fast as he could. Instead, he halted in place as milky-white eyes turned away from the deer and locked on him. 

Richard cocked his head off to the side and delved back into the deer, locating a softer mass and detaching it from the peritoneum. Till could only watch as it was slapped down in the same place his head was moments before, eyes pressing shut in retaliation against the viscera presented to him. Against his own will, the stark nausea settled in his stomach decided to make itself known again, and in one hasty turn Till found himself bent over the arm of his chair, retching and coughing. 

As he turned back to face Richard, ice-cold hands grabbed his face and turned it this way and that. Richard mumbled to himself and sidled forward to sit on his knees, picking the tray up from the table and thrusting it towards Till. Till shook his head, turning his eyes to the ceiling in silent plea to not be sick again. “You must be hungry…” Richard offered, voice clipped at the ends and hoarse throughout. The only words that came to Till’s mind were Death’s rattle, but it seemed terribly befitting of the scowling man gripping the platter. “Eat,” Richard demanded again, “I saved the best… you’ll starve.” Seizing the organ in his hand, he set the tray aside and offered it more directly, bristling at the fact that Till insisted on turning it away. 

Self-preservation abandoned, Till dug his heels into the carpet and pushed away from the table, “I come looking for a nachzehrer, and instead I get a madman.” Richard looked crestfallen, yet interested, as Till continued. “I’m not eating- that.” 

“Why not?” Till had to strain to hear Richard’s voice as he tossed the still-warm sample aside. 

Till wanted to run, but Richard had come to perch on the very edge of the table, eliciting a groan from the wood struggling to support his weight. 

“It’s sick,” he answered finally, “It’s sick and it’s raw and it’s… why are you eating it on the table?” 

As Till’s voice became higher, those cold hands were suddenly upon his face again, caressing through his hair and pulling him back towards the table by the shirt collar. Till pressed his hands against Richard’s shoulders to pry himself away, but Richard held steadfast, balancing precariously on the edge of the table so he could cradle Till’s head against his chest. 

“Of course, of course, my rarity…” Richard sounded far away, and Till squirmed under the bloodstained hands stroking searing pain into the claw marks decorating his cheek, “Of course! How could I…” 

Till was relieved to be let go, staggering to hold onto the table when Richard shoved past him and landed, at last, on the ground. 

No sooner than he blinked, Richard was gone.


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine being consistent

The house, if filthy and neglected before, had only declined in hospitable appeal. As Till stepped around the table, his boots squelched into the carpet, tracking the now-cold secretions of the deer’s carcass into the cleaner parts of the fibers. Bracing himself, Till craned his neck to properly examine the animal, twisting it in a way that allowed him to untuck its head from beneath its body. 

He retracted his hand immediately, staring in horror as the head lolled about, connected only by sparse ligament and the spine. The vertebrae were crushed in some places, leaving cerebrospinal fluid to slick down the fur and add to the sticky concoction on the table. The deer’s face was mauled, bearing the distinct marks of a large dog’s teeth, and the ribs stood bared to the cold dining hall air. The antlers showcased tufts of silky white fur, which Till tentatively removed and placed into his pocket. 

Till glanced over his shoulder towards the only doorway leaving the room, inhaling deeply and looking back to the table. The human handprints on the wooden surface tightened his stomach into a knot, and as he parted his lips to comment on them, his breath halted in his throat. 

“Shmeeve?” He whispered, stepping away from the table and looking around the room. She was missing, which was something he wasn’t used to. Shmeeve was always no more than five feet away, scowling at his decisions and stealing heaping portions of his food. 

When no reply came, Till peeked his head out of the dining hall and slipped down the corridor, whispering her name intermittently and praying that she popped her head around a corner. He clicked his teeth quietly, creeping back into the foyer and searching for her. _Perhaps she hid when that man attacked me… or perhaps she climbed out of a window?_ Till’s thoughts raced, accompanied by his pulse resonating in his temples and blurring his eyes with tears. What if she was gone? Till paused. 

What if he’d eaten her? 

Reaching the front doors of the foyer, Till tried the handles and found that they were firmly locked. Upon closer inspection, he realized they were not, in fact, locked. Conversely, it seemed that scraps of metal had been stowed between the door and the frame it inhabited, effectively rendering the exit useless. The lock wasn’t much better, with small animal bones perched upright into the mechanisms. _Not that I had a key anyway,_ he thought, and leaned his head against the door. 

Till’s eyes turned to the window and he considered smashing one out. The chances of it alerting Richard were high, though, and in the case that Shmeeve was still alive, he couldn’t bear to leave her behind. 

With a trembling breath, he stepped back into the foyer and smoothed his hands against the front of his shirt, pushing the feel of crusted blood to the back of his mind. Shmeeve was what he was worried about, and Shmeeve was his only priority. Besides, he’d been sent to kill a nachzehrer, but he didn’t find it likely that the townsfolk would bat an eye to one reclusive, odd-natured hermit extra. 

_The stake._

Till paused, patting down his pockets to find the weapon Jarvia had given him. All that presented itself was a collection of creek stones and frayed threads, and Till felt his blood run cold. 

He had to get out of there. Richard didn’t seem to be in possession of a single faculty, and Till decided that it was only time before the man mistook him for the nachzehrer and staked him to the door. The peculiar fascination would die, and hunger for fame would set in. He was a dead man walking. A mouse, wandering aimlessly through the lair of an unhinged barn cat. 

_My rarity._ The words flashed across Till’s mind, and for moments he made an effort to recall where he’d heard them. The memory struck him like a hammer when he finally remembered, and Till suddenly felt like he was being watched. What did that mean? The lingering sensation of hair stroking and cradling didn’t soothe Till’s nerves in the least, and only elicited a shudder in their wake. He was being groomed to be devoured by a beast. The same beast who had viscerally torn apart a grown deer on a mahogany table. The same beast who had, by the looks of it, wrestled it from the jaws of wolves. 

Till didn’t realize that he’d stopped until a voice spoke behind him, croaking and hushed, “Cooked, isn’t it?” 

Reeling around, he was met with the white-eyed man, who held a charred, unrecognizable creature in his hands. It reeked of burned fur and charcoal, though didn’t seem any bigger than a house cat. 

Till stared at the presentation. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at Richard, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus directly on the gaping eye sockets and partially skinned head of whatever it was Richard was holding. As if his worst fears were confirmed, Till felt his heart clench. “Shmeeve,” he rasped, and his cheeks grew warm with tears. “God, no, Shmeeve-“ 

Richard’s demanding grin didn’t falter, though his brows narrowed together and he seemed offended by Till’s reaction. “Shmeeve? Oh, but she’s cooked- I cooked her so carefully… I laid her in the fire and I waited so patiently.” 

Richard narrowly ducked away from an angry swing, Till staggering on his feet and hastily grabbing at whatever part of Richard he could. He seized a handful of hair, and Richard reflexively dropped the cooked creature to the floor. Richard struggled to free himself, hissing animalistically and wrenching his head around to sink his teeth into Till’s wrist. Till let him go and aimed one sharp blow to the man’s ribs, putting him on the floor. Richard tumbled and grabbed the hunk of meat, holding it in front of himself like a shield and muttering indistinctly. Till caught “rabbit” and halted the wind-up of a kick, panting past the rage welling in his chest and pressing in on his lungs. 

“What?” He breathed, eyes wild and glossing with the remaining fear of his beloved pet being cast into a hearth. 

“It’s a rabbit!” Richard sat up, dusting the rabbit off and holding it once more out to Till, “A rabbit… with long ears! Have you seen a rabbit before?” However scuffed up he was, he seemed more perplexed that Till had lashed out over a _rabbit._

“Where’s my cat?” Till demanded, gripping Richard by the shirt and easily hauling him to his feet, “If this isn’t my cat-“ he seized the rabbit, which was scalding hot to the touch, “then where is she?” 

Richard blinked vacantly at him before his gaze shifted just over Till’s shoulder, seeming to think. “The small creature… about, I believe? The one that arrived with you?” 

Till nodded slowly, holding Richard up on his toes by the collar of his shirt. 

“Hiding…” Richard struggled to get free, “it scampered off into hiding when you foolishly threw yourself from my balcony. Sneaky, isn’t it? Sneaky, sneaky.” 

Till let him go and heaved a sigh of relief, trusting his words simply through what felt like a lack of better judgment. With a hunching of his shoulders, Till leaned down to settle on the floor, elbows resting against his knees. The room muted into silence, only disturbed by the shifting of Richard’s clothes as he once more picked up the dusty, charred quadruped. As he heaved a sigh, Till shook his head and stretched his legs out, “I’ve lost my a-” 

In response, Richard tore off a chunk of meat and stuffed it into Till’s mouth, dropping the rabbit and gripping the other’s jaw to force his mouth closed, free hand pressing over Till’s lips and digging dirtied nails into his cheeks, “You must eat. The wolves want nothing with a starving man, and they’re hungry…” Till struggled, revulsed both by the taste of the animal and Richard leaning in glaringly close. “They’re starving, and they’re weak… They’re dying creatures, traveler, but you don’t care? Do you?” 

The mildly amused demeanor of before was gone, faded into a depraved stare and widening pale, shadowed eyes. The nails in Till’s cheek were painful, and as he fought to wrench himself free, he could feel them scraping through his skin. Till pulled free, dropping his jaw and snapping his head upwards to free his canines. Richard yelped as they sank into his hand, drawing blood that ran like tar across his fingers. Digging his boots into the boards, Till scrambled away and bolted for the exit, fumbling with the doorknob and deciding it was better to throw his weight against the door. It creaked under the force, and Till’s shoulders tensed when footsteps halted behind him. 

“You’ve come all this way,” Richard rasped, “you’ve left your town and entrusted your life with a village of traitors… and you’re simply going to flee?”

Till turned, pressing his back to the door and lifting his hands in a fighting stance, daring Richard to take another step. 

“All this…” Richard laughed, shaking his head, “and you still haven’t killed the fabled nachzehrer, have you? You’ve still not found him, have you?”


	6. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this part on Till's birthday, but our internet has been out for the entire week and came back on this morning. I hate living in the woods (if you can call it that - we live in the middle of a bunch of trees and farmland. Yay the south).

“What do you mean?” Staring warily at Richard, Till lifted his chin and studied the other man’s face, searching for some break in the challenging glare. “I was in the process of searching for him before I ran into you. I had to have been close.” 

“You were,” Richard harrumphed, sweeping his hand behind himself and producing the whittled stake. “And you were close.” They stood in silence, as if Richard were listening to something interesting, “Why do we hunt the things that terrify us? When does a creature cease to be prey, and become a beast?” Richard tossed the stake to the floor, watching resolutely as it rolled to Till’s feet. “You hunt the nachzehrer, but do you even know what you’re looking for?”

“A monster,” Till seized the stake, pressing it parallel to his stomach and tightening both hands around the weapon. Searching his brain for Jarvia’s description, he dampened his lips and spoke again, “A giant, towering creature, with white eyes and sharp, dagger-like teeth… It lumbers and snarls and… I was told it was a creature from hell, back from the grave and searching for anything to massacre.” Richard nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ground, and Till crept along the wall.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Richard looked back up, “tell me more about this nachzehrer. What do you get if you kill him?”

“I was told he’s killed people… killed horses, and chased children, and terrorized everybody in the village. They want it dead, and they want it dead as soon as possible.” Till hesitated, “Do you know where it is?” 

Richard smiled - softly and somberly. 

“I used to know him well. We were close, him and I. We knew everything about each other… our fears, our wants, our plans. I was there when he died, and I was there when he rose. I felt everything he loved, and I felt when it was replaced first with ravenous hunger, and then harrowing loneliness. I’ve hunted him for years, but he was always one step ahead of me. He was always too much of a coward to show his face.” 

Richard’s gaze dropped to the stake in Till’s hand.

“And I was too much of a coward to kill him when I had the chance.” 

Till swallowed, moving the stake to stow it in his coat as he once again leaned into the door. “Then, help me now. A great plague like this has to come with amazing compensation, and… if you help me kill the nachzehrer, there’s a lovely inn in the town. It’s owned by a woman named Berit, called, er- The Wilted Willow-“ Richard turned his head away at the name, “I think, and she’s very kind. She’d let you stay, I’m sure, let you be around people again…” 

“It’s a surprise that place is still open,” Richard stepped away, as if in a daze, and leaned down to pick up the remains of the rabbit from the floor. It was cold now, with flesh flaking off into Richard’s hands and fluttering like ash to the ground. Richard bit into it anyway, beginning his ascent up the wailing stairs. “Come. It’s late.” 

Till stayed firmly in place.

“It’s late,” Richard repeated, his hold on the rabbit tightening. The gesture produced an effect that Till could only pinpoint as bones breaking, finding motivation enough to unwillingly jog after Richard. 

He could only wait, as they passed through shadowed hallways and turned chipped corners, for a dagger to wedge itself neatly between his ribs. Richard had to be planning something after his outburst, and the pale, thin fingers stroking the rabbit with poignant remorse didn’t do much to convince him otherwise. The air was cold and thick with stagnation, though in the occasional glimpse of moonlight through a rare window, Till could make out the portraits of men; once painted with beauty and splendor, but refinished into grotesque creatures. Richard stopped suddenly at a door, “Sleep here. It’s a rather high drop, so the window is a poor choice should you seek to run again. Though,” he turned to face Till, “I’m not sure that’s a wise consideration, should you want to find the nachzehrer.” 

Turning the handle, his fingers brushed up to push the door open and reveal the room. Till could make out perfumes that had clearly remained locked away for an estimable century, with a distinct aroma of pine resin and frost. He stepped in, expecting the door to slam shut behind him, but Richard simply stood where he was, watching Till with a quiet fascination. It wasn’t until Till glanced back at him that Richard disappeared around the corner, leaving the corridor in eerie silence. The house creaked quietly as it settled, and Till’s boots tapped on the wooden floors as he took them off, leaving behind distinct prints of where he’d stood moments before. His coat slipped from his shoulders and Till set it aside into the wardrobe, though he quickly hid the stake beneath his pillow.

Like a harsh wave, the day seemed to crash in on Till entirely, prompting him to sink down into the bed and stretch out. It was comfortable enough when he ignored the disused smell of the sheets, and soon enough fatigue pulled at his eyes and parted his lips in a yawn. 

No sooner than his eyes drifted closed, a cloth pressed itself to his cheek. 

Till snapped his eyes open and drew away, staring at Richard as he dipped the cloth back into a bowl of water, “Your face is a bit bloody…” Richard tapped his own cheek that corresponded with the worst of the scratches, laying his hand against Till’s forehead and pushing his head back down to the pillow. Till sought to relax, but he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Richard as he tended to the marks. Exhaling deeply, he looked down to the bowl, muddied with a tinge of rose-red color. The image in the platter flashed back, and it occurred to Till how battered he probably looked. If it were up to him, he’d be in a hot bath at the inn, not in an ice-cold room with a raving lunatic. 

“That stings,” he retorted, pulling away once more when Richard wiped at a deeper scratch. 

“As wounds often do.” Richard put the cloth into the bowl and set it aside, leaning down over the bed and gathering up the creature circling about his feet, “She was sleeping in the dumbwaiter, not the hearth.” 

Till sat up and reached for Shmeeve, gathering the cat into his arms and cradling her tight. She meowed, rubbed her cheek against Till’s jaw, and wrestled free to curl up on his pillow. Till laid beside her and stroked his fingers through her fur, barely conscious of Richard standing from the bed and pacing back towards the door. 

The comfort of Shmeeve purring reminded Till of the hour, and as the moon rose high over the manor, he finally began to melt into sleep, blissfully unaware of the morose form standing in the darkness of the corridor, and how it began to whistle softly - high, then low, and keeping a drowsy measure for hours as it kept watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for Richard's Engel whistle. I'm not sure why I expected to get through this story without the Engel whistle.


	7. VI

Sunlight spilled in through the window, offering a futile attempt to warm the room, succeeding only in blinding Till as soon as his eyes opened. With a groan, he sat up and moved back on the bed so he could properly gaze out of the window, running through the previous day in his mind. _Town, travelling, manor, near-death, nachzehrer, near-death, burned rabbit._ He lifted a hand and pressed it to his temple, massaging the area with his palm and throwing the blanket from his legs. 

Shmeeve growled lowly and Till looked over to the chest at the foot of the bed, where Shmeeve sat with her hackles raised and ears flattened. Her tail thumped against the wooden lid, and it was only when he moved to collect her did he notice the crouching man staring back at her from a patch of floor just shy of the sunbeam. Shmeeve yowled and Till lifted her into his arms, carefully standing from his bed and inhaling sharply, “Can I help you? I don’t appreciate people watching me sleep.” 

Before he could get far enough back to retrieve the stake, Richard got to his feet, eyes keeping steady on the cat, “I wasn’t watching you sleep.” Till looked taken aback, if not concerned, “I was watching this lovely little creature. A shmeeve, you called it? Shmeeve, what does that mean?”

“It’s what I call her.” Till took another step back, stopping beside the headboard and moving his hand to the mattress. 

Richard’s eyes followed his hand first, and then tracked up to Till’s face, “Oh, it isn’t a Shmeeve. There’s only her, and you call her the Shmeeve. Does she know tricks, this Shmeeve?” Shmeeve hissed at the man, hauling herself from Till’s arm and onto his shoulder. Richard stepped into the sunbeam, and despite the chilling winter light, his pupils widened, drawing with them clasped hands and a tilted head. 

“No, she doesn’t.” Till settled back into bed and threw his legs over the other side, stepping back towards the door and shoving his feet into his boots. He stumbled on the doorway and Richard moved his hands to hold them up, lips parting and posture jumping. 

“The doorway- They’re… narrow. You’ll trip and knock down a painting, I’m sure, if you’re not careful.” Huffing loudly, Richard stepped around the bed and joined Till in the hallway, though continued walking past and sought out the stairs, “Dreadful. You should teach her something. It might be useful.” Shmeeve jumped down from Till’s shoulder, and Till hastily tied the laces on his shoes. 

“You’re just breathtaking the way you are, Shmeeve.” He consoled her, stepping back into the room to retrieve his coat and his weapon, “Absolutely brilliant.”

\--   
As he meandered downstairs, Till found himself convinced that the floors were slightly less dusty than before. He pawed through fewer cobwebs than he remembered doing so previously, and on the occasion a candle flickered dimly in a formerly pitch-black corner. When he inhaled, his lungs filled with air instead of dust, and Shmeeve happily sniffed along the boards. It was still filthy, by any means, but it was much less like a crypt and much more like a recently-abandoned shed. 

Richard was nowhere to be seen, but the house bore that desolate melancholy that made Till wonder if the other man had been a hallucination. It was so silent that, as Till crept down the stairs, he was almost caught off guard by the boards screeching. With a heavy sigh, he made his way through the foyer. A part of him expected Richard to be there already, hauling a mutilated animal across the ground to prop on the table. The foyer was colder than upstairs, but the fireplace remained dim and unlit. Venturing over, he knelt down and picked up a few wedges of wood from the rack, tossing them in and setting to work in an attempt to light it. By the time the fire sparked to light, Till had settled on the stones and pulled Shmeeve close, allowing the flames to wash over him. 

“I would have warmed the house,” came a voice from behind him, vaguely muffled and hushed. Till turned to see Richard looming a few feet back, peering around Till to focus on the fire. A clay pipe rested between his lips, and after a moment of contemplation, he retrieved a splintered piece of wood from the rack and stuck it into the fire, dipping it into the pipe basin and lighting the material within. As he inhaled and then breathed out, Till was met with an earthy aroma of Mullein and Skullcap. “You’ve nothing but that poorly made stake, do you? Your dagger, did you find it?” 

Till shook his head and picked Shmeeve up to drape her over his shoulder, shifting to his feet and reaching into his pocket for the stake, “The stake is the only important part, isn’t it?” 

Richard fell quiet, tapping the pipe against his lips and looking down at Till, “You’ll be dead in minutes, traveler. You’ll be torn apart.” With a short tut, he leaned back on his heels, but didn’t walk away like Till expected. “You aim to be kind to the world, and so you expect the world to be kind to you. The world isn’t kind to people, traveler. It finds the soft parts, and it sinks its teeth in.” Till stared at Richard quietly, and it wasn’t until Richard stepped closer to the fireplace that he dared to move. 

Metal scraped against wood as Richard took a sword from its perch, holding his pipe in one hand and twirling the sword with the other. “Your father never sent you to war, did he?” Angling his eyes up to Till, Richard elevated his brows. “He never was a fighter, was he? Was he a coward?” 

“He was a poet,” Till croaked, and took the sword as Richard offered it to him. 

“So, a fool.” Before Till could answer, Richard seized the second sword and popped open the mantel box. He took out a sword sheath and shoved it into Till’s hands, following it with a second. Richard clipped the sheath around his waist, slipping the band through the threading on his waist. Till thought it was absurd, given the several bands of leather already presented by Richard moving his coat aside, but he figured it was best not to question an angry recluse with a sword. 

The sound of Richard’s boots were hollow as he marched to the door, and Till scrambled to buckle his own sheath and jog after him. “We’re going now?” Till inquired, slipping the blade into its holster and dusting off his sleeves. 

“You expect it to sleep?” Richard glanced over his shoulder, “You expect it to wait for when you’re ready?”

Till parted his lips, but Richard jolted the lock and dislodged the bones before he could speak, and with a forceful shove against the slat beneath the door, they were both bared to the whistling cold outside. 

“Just like your poetic jester of a father did the hearts of the world, you expect it to fall into your arms, don’t you?”


	8. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, mental health is a mess isn't she.
> 
> I apologize sincerely for the wait, and want to thank you all for your patience!
> 
> As always, if you enjoy this story, leave a comment :) I love reading them!

Winter air bit at Till’s face, prompting him to retreat back into the safety of his coat. Shmeeve hopped through the snow behind him, quickening her pace so that she didn’t sink too far into the freshly fallen snow. 

Richard marched along at his own pace, a frown set on his face and his eyes fixed ahead. He seemed to have his own agenda, and didn’t bother to glance back when Till’s steps sank into a puddle in a hastened effort to maintain pursuit. “Where are we going?” Till spoke, voice crackling. 

“To find the nachzehrer,” Richard replied, pausing with his foot held above the ground. Till crashed into him almost immediately, throwing Richard forward and causing him to plant a foot firmly against the ground just beyond its original point. The motion left Richard in a rather uncomfortable split, and with a malevolent scowl, he turned his eyes up at Till. 

Till could only offer his arm, muttering apologies and pulling away when Richard stood and dusted himself off. 

“Watch where you put your feet.” Richard’s words were accompanied by him drawing his sword, taking a quick stab at the ground, and then grimacing in response to a harrowing clang of metal echoing through the trees. A bear trap snapped up from the ground, clamping metal teeth together and settling back into the snow. 

As Richard continued along through the woods, Till scooped Shmeeve up and continued in Richard’s footsteps, deciding to stay several steps behind him and watch him carefully. 

“What do we do when we find the nachzehrer?” He asked after several long minutes. 

“We kill it, don’t we?” Richard glanced back, hand steadying on the pommel of his sword. “You must wound any creature before you can kill it. Very rarely will any man - with his own merits - succeed in killing it in their first swing. You must tear it down gradually, until it limps and crawls. Have you the heart to do that, traveler?”

“Of course I do,” Till’s voice held indignance, wrinkling at the edges with offense. “I’ve killed plenty of things, Rabbits and partridges, and ra-” 

“Have you killed a man?” Richard interjected, and in the moment it took Till to blink, the other man was facing him. Richard cocked his head to the side, expression frozen into a bit of a demanding stare, “Have you ever taken the life of something that had the voice to beg you not to? Have you ever put a blade through the heart of something once so capable of love?” 

Till dampened his lips, but couldn’t force an answer. Momentarily, Richard’s face seemed to soften. 

“You haven’t, had you?” Richard stepped back, eyes turning off into the silence of the woods, “Will you be able to when the time comes?” 

“I will. I will, because it’s not a person anymore. It’s killed children, Richard-” For moments, Richard squinted, as if he’d forgotten the meaning of his own name. Till cleared his throat and inhaled sharply, continuing past the oddity of Richard’s reaction, “It’s killed children, and families, and livestock. Everybody in that village is afraid, and they’re counting on me.” Richard laughed, and Till took it as a victory. Richard turned back around and continued on his path, sighing heavily and murmuring to himself. 

The trees darkened the sky overhead, casting shadows against the snow and littering pine needles across the ground. Richard poked his sword occasionally into a drift, humming lowly when he found traps and seeming the slightest bit disappointed when he didn’t. Far off in the woods, birds fluttered from their perches, and Richard halted in place to listen to them. Till pulled himself back to prevent a repeat of earlier, staring at Richard as he turned his chin up and began to whistle quietly. His confusion was short lived, however, before Richard brought his sword up and reeled around. 

Till watched his life flash before his eyes, cold and quick and harboring the drawn out sound of panting. The icy chill of winter didn’t fade, nor did the smell of wood ash and antiquity that Till could only identify as Richard. Peeking his eyes back open, his gaze dropped down to the sword resting against his neck, returning upwards to focus on the pin-point pupils of the man before him. The sword in his hand led up along the blade, which rested against the side of his throat, and ended behind Till’s vision. 

“A horse?” Richard breathed, and Till raised his brows, drawing away from the shining steel threatening to sever an artery. When he turned, he was met with Dame, who snorted in his face and hooved at the ground. She didn’t seem bothered by the sword, instead pushing her nose against Till’s cheek and searching against his coat for treats. “You brought a horse?”

“Did you think I walked?” Till shook his head and threw his arms around Dame’s neck.

Richard fell silent, putting his shoulders back and stepping away from Till. “I loathe facetious people.”

Till glanced at the other and sighed, shifting Shmeeve in his arms to put her in the satchel on the side of Dame’s saddle. With a heave, he pulled himself up to sit on top, stroking Dame’s mane and sidling after Richard. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You have a habit of, well, you seem…” He fell off, “You never seem very happy. I almost killed you, you know. You could’ve been killed by this nachzehrer by now. I’d think you’d be happy at least through the principle of being alive. You live in that house? I was told the nachzehrer lived there. Is that why you’re like this? Where… you’re either trying to feed me something inedible or you’re delivering a death omen..." Dame paced after Richard, snorting against his hair and whinnying intermittently. “You either want me to leave, or you’re doing a poor job at convincing me to stay.” 

“I never told you to stay.”

“You did, didn’t you? You said we were hunting a monster. You said you were leading me to kill it. You don’t know where it is, do you?” Till’s voice became sharp, clipped at the end by a sudden bit of laughter. “Not in the least, do you?”

Richard bristled, hand returning to the handle of his sword. “Of course I do.”

“Then where is it, Richard? Are you going to take me to it, or are we going to wander about in the woods all day?” Till sat back on the horse, letting the reins fall against his lap as his shoulders relaxed. “I’d hate to freeze out here.” 

Richard didn’t reply for several minutes, shaking his head slowly. 

Till huffed, “If you know where it is, then why haven’t you found it yourself? You could’ve gotten any number of the village militia to help you, and yet you decide to sit in a manor and do what, collect belts?” 

Richard reached back and seized Dame’s reins, looping them over her head beginning to lead her through the snow. She whinnied and tossed her head back, but Richard continued to walk. “We are going to kill a monster. You are going to kill a monster. You are going to slaughter it, let its blood wash over you. You’re going to lather it on your hands, use it to sign your name on a plaque somewhere, and you’re going to leave. You’re going to leave…” He quickly turned back forward and Till held his breath, studying how Richard pulled the edges of his coat closed. 

Swallowing, Till brushed his pants off and spoke quietly, “Let’s be on it, then. Zven will never know what hit him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you enjoy this story, leave a comment :) I love reading them!


	9. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm going to be real, there's some animal death in this chapter, so if you have an aversion to content like that, don't read this chapter. I'll TL;DR the chapter in the end notes, just so you can get a brief and not miss out on important plot points (there are some), without having to witness the whole deal.

Richard had stopped speaking directly to him, and instead continued on with his activities of vaguely murmuring a collection of thoughts that Till couldn’t make out. His boots sank into a snow drift occasionally, prompting Richard to blindly stumble before regaining his composure. Till didn’t have the courage to ask him any more questions, or comment when Richard became eerily quiet and instead took to shaking his head. 

Shmeeve tossed and turned in the bag, meowing loudly when the sound of wolves crying broke across the air. Richard barely seemed bothered by it, instead continuing to march almost angrily through the trees. “They’re just dogs,” Richard snapped, voice low and calculated, “unruly and undomesticated.” 

“Dogs that have no qualms with tearing something apart.”

“Nonsense.” Richard did stop walking, though, drawing his sword out and flickering his eyes back and forth in pursuit of the low, malevolent snarling. Dame whinnied, prevented from darting off only by Richard gripping the reins with white-knuckled force. Till could only curse, leaning off to the side to dismount from Dame. The sound of a body impacting snow caught his attention, and he looked up to witness Richard struggling under a large white wolf, which snapped at his throat and snarled in retaliation to Richard grabbing a handful of its fur and shoving it back as he scrambled for his sword. Till landed deftly into the snow and unsheathed his own weapon, crying out as a second, somewhat larger wolf sank its teeth into the sleeve of his travelling coat, bracing its paws into the ground and dragging him back. Till hit the snow face first and dropped his sword, flailing as he tried to strike the creature in any way imaginable. 

Dame’s reins clattered before she reared up and bolted, leaving deep hoof prints in the snow and taking Shmeeve with her. Till barely had a moment to be relieved before the searing pain in his arm pulled him back to the problem at hand. Fabric tore under the wolf’s pulling force, and Till made a wild grab for his sword, swinging it back towards his assailant. The wolf howled, lunging at him again and skittering sideways into the snow as a blade pierced its side. Crimson spilled across the dirtied ground, and the wolf tossed about in a struggle to return back to its feet, kicking out and howling once more. Till panted and reached out to it, forgetting momentarily about the rest of the world around him. He could only watch as blood pooled out and matted into the wolf’s fur, viscera strewn out in its efforts to fight again. Till couldn’t bear to look down at the sword in his hand, instead turning his eyes to where Richard had been engaged with the first wolf. 

More blood spattered the trees and ground, but Richard was nowhere to be seen, and for a brief moment he worried that Richard had been disarmed and dragged off. It felt dizzying to Till, considering the huffing, pleading animal behind him and the new-found idea that Richard was dead. Why hadn’t Richard screamed? Suddenly, the sound of reins and hoofs crossed his mind, and Till’s worry was replaced with anger and disbelief. 

He’d left. Richard had stolen his horse and fled. 

A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it, jolting at another fit of loud, raucous howling and snarling. A large wolf, streaked in cruor and mud, reared up onto its hind paws, snapping at a much smaller wolf of equal injury. The smaller wolf leapt and sank its teeth into the scruff of the larger, wrestling it to the ground and continuously biting where it could find exposure. The larger creature tossed its head about, rolling and kicking. It grasped the smaller wolf and threw it easily aside, barely letting a breath pass before it was upon the dazed animal. The larger wolf bit at its belly, eliciting yelps and whines that made Till’s skin crawl. It was a harrowing sound, and the small wolf struggled and writhed to get free from the large paws pressing it into the snow and tearing at its fur in search for a more vital organ. 

Turning his sword over in his hands, Till stalked quietly towards it, and suddenly gleaming amber eyes had turned on him. The attacking wolf hunched down and snarled, blood-stained teeth bared and ears laid back against its skull. _I’m going to die here,_ Till concluded, keeping his eyes fixed on the animal before him and holding his sword out, _What are you doing, Lindemann?_

The wolf took the stare as a challenge, darting sideways and then lunging in an attack. Till shut his eyes and used his sword as a blocking bar, hitting the ground with a breathless wheeze. He couldn’t help but flinch as warm liquid spattered his face, sickeningly rich in iron and quickly becoming sticky in the cold air. It was a slow trickle at first, but as soon as he moved his sword it showered down in torrents, flooding his senses and making it difficult to finally open his eyes. 

Metal gleamed through thick tufts of vermillion fur, and on the other side of it the wolf offered a low gurgle, weakly kicking to free itself from the weapon. Shoving it off, Till shuddered and scuffled to his feet, looking back to the small wolf lying injured on the ground. 

It panted and whined, breaths trembling and faint as Till stepped over and knelt down to examine it. Its mouth was bloodstained from the fight, with matching splotches decorating a large percentage of its fur. Snowy-white eyes fixed on Till as the man crouched down, though it seemed to suddenly find strength to scramble to its feet and quickly stagger off when Till made an attempt to touch it. Till lost track of it almost immediately in the deep trees, but he stared off in the direction of its departure until the blood on his face had gone ice-cold. 

Looking around, Till studied the creatures lying still in the snow, and he felt a nauseating guilt wash over him. Stepping over the larger wolf, he searched about for a drift of snow and pushed it over the animal, hoping that the weather would block out any scavengers. He did the same with the other wolf and stayed there for moments, whispering gently to what God may be out there, a series of apologies that felt empty and unused. He hadn’t prayed since he was a boy, and now it felt as if he were doing it only through formality. Shaking his head, Till carded his hands through his hair and set off on a self-charted path to the manor, hoping that his memory served him proper and he didn’t get lost. 

He was livid, all things considered. When he found Richard, he was going to gut him like a fish and sell every article of his fancy clothing, weaponry, and creepy antique paintings, and he was going to use the earnings to drink until he forgot about all of this. He’d taken Shmeeve, and he’d taken Dame, and he’d left Till there to die in the snow and bloodshed. Suddenly, the nachzehrer was the least of Till’s concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR (Too long; didn't read)
> 
> \- Richard is his usual broody, somewhat dismissive self  
> \- Till feels a disturbance in the force  
> \- They're attacked by wolves  
> \- Dame bolts off, and Till is Dead Convinced that Richard rode off with her  
> \- Till has to figure out how to kill two wolves and watches as a third, smaller one is nearly killed - with wounds to its neck and side and essentially everywhere  
> \- Till is livid that Richard would a) steal his horse, and b) steal his cat, and c) leave him to die in the woods.  
> \- Till Is Going To Kill A Nachzehrer (+1)


	10. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for keeping everybody waiting. I know excuses are not the way to go, but my only attempt at justification is the admission that I've been undergoing a bit of turmoil both in my relationship and my mental health (with... a bit of a three-day medical hindrance). Here is the next part, though, and I hope everybody enjoys!
> 
> If you enjoy this part, please leave kudos and a comment! I love reading every comment that I receive :) Please take care and stay safe!

Snow crunched under his boots, falling heavily and quickly blanketing over the footprints that he’d begun to follow back towards the manor. Not long after that, the smattering of bear traps had been covered as well, and Till made a veritable effort not to panic. No, he wanted to be composed when he found Richard. The anger pounding at his temples was enough to keep him warm and moving, hand resting on the pommel of his sword and drumming nervously. 

If anybody else were to look at him, they might believe he was the nachzehrer - bloodied and bruised and wild-eyed. 

Till dampened his lips and looked about when he heard something heavy fall in the trees, turning on the spot and beginning towards it. His pace only quickened at the sight of blood splotching across the ground, and he drew his sword once more, mentally preparing himself to take a third, likely innocent life for the day. He couldn’t help but consider the wolves innocent, simply because it was their nature - they’re hunters, and therefore they hunt. 

It was almost a morbid thing for him to laugh at his own conclusion. What was he doing out here? His father hadn’t raised a hunter. In fact, he’d spent more time sitting in front of the fire with his sister, weaving baskets and listening to her feet on the floor as she danced in merry little circles. Hunters hunt, and basket weavers weave. Why was he trying to cross them? It seemed poverty was a maddening thing, driving the humble to absolute cruelty. He wasn’t being cruel, was he? At the worst, he was going to put something of its misery. At the best, it would be Richard.

His thoughts faded out when the smatterings became proper stains, leading up to a man slumped at the bottom of a tree. The breaths in front of the man’s face clouded in short, rapid pants, and Till could almost immediately identify the finely crafted sword laying no more than four feet away from him as Richard’s. 

The anger disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, prompting Till to step over and verify that the wounded, gasping thing before him was the proud and somewhat crazed hermit he’d met a few days prior. Richard’s eyes were dark and glazed over, one hand pressed firmly into his side and the other clamped against his throat. “Richard,” Till began, kneeling in front of him and reaching out when the other man slid from the tree and fell sideways. Sitting him back upright, Till began rummaging through his pockets and searching for some kind of cloth, settling resolutely on tearing the bottom from his already-destroyed shirt and pressing it firmly against Richard’s throat, trying to stave off the blood before that glossy, half-lidded look on his face turned into a hollow, lifeless stare. “Up you go,” Till coaxed, pulling Richard’s hand away from his neck and looping his arm around his neck. The effort of standing seemed to be enough to stir Richard back somewhat, and he echoed some fatigued, desolate whimper, coughing sharply and staggering to stay upright on his feet. 

“There you are.” Till nodded, “You’re going to be fine. Just keep this here.” Richard seemed to hesitate when Till moved his other hand from his side up to his neck to hold the cloth there, but he obeyed anyway and Till resolved to simply picking him up and beginning away from the tree. Not far off, he could discern the outline of bare ground, which meant there would be some sort of overhang or shelter where he could properly stop the bleeding. He concluded that the overhang was likely where Richard was headed in the first place, but the stained snow at his feet proved his failure.

Till had crossed longer stretches of terrain, in far worse weather and in far worse accommodations, but he couldn’t recall one that felt nearly as daunting as this one, with Richard’s face pressed into his shoulder in an innate, human aversion to the cold. The delirious, disjointed murmurs muffled into his coat were the only thing that provided verification that Richard hadn’t bled out already, and Till found himself almost impressed at how long Richard had remained at least half-conscious, much less alive. 

When he reached the overhang, which opened into somewhat of a small, dimly-lit cave, he stepped in and set Richard down, using what was left of the sun to rummage through Richard’s things and find something he could use for his injuries. He was lucky enough to find a kerchief, pulling at the buckle of one of Richard’s many belts and pulling it away. “I know you hate friends,” he jested to hide the panicked trembling of his voice, “but bear with me.” Richard didn’t respond, eyes drifting shut and murmuring ceasing into nothing more than a faint moving of his lips. “Hey, Richard.” Patting the other male’s cheek, he managed to get his eyes open again, turning his attention back to his side. Pushing his shirt up to about his chest, he quickly located the teeth marks burrowed deep into his skin, looking almost as if the wolf that attacked him had gone directly for the kill. Pressing the kerchief against the worst part of the injury, he looped the belt around Richard’s waist and cinched it up. He figured it would hold over somewhat, and he was grateful for the advantage that it was cold and therefore quickly coagulating the existing blood. 

Stepping out of the cave, he searched around for something to start a fire with, cursing the fact that most of his travelling supplies had run off with Dame. He knew he should have been worried about her more than he was, and the longer he stood there and contemplated it, the more driven he was to abandon Richard altogether and go find them. He decided against it, though. Shmeeve was smart - probably smarter than he was - and Dame knew where the village was. The worst that could happen is that they would send a search party, and Richard would receive care more proper than a basket weaver tearing up clothes. 

Eventually, he found a few drier sticks, bringing them back in and taking Richard’s dagger to feather out the wood. Striking the back of the dagger against a rock, he eventually got a small spark to strike, leaning down to air it and lay the smaller sticks on. The larger ones followed, and eventually he had a small, burning pile of tinder to derive some warmth from. Shifting over to Richard, he gathered the other male up and moved him beside the fire, whistling shortly every time Richard began to close his eyes. Sticking his knife into the fire, he turned it over and over, letting the metal heat and moving Richard’s head to rest the blade against the bite marks. Richard’s eyes fluttered, but it didn’t garner much of a reaction past the slight shuffling of his feet. “Hey,” Till spoke softly, making his best attempt not to spook the half-awake man sitting next to him (though, upon further reflection, he couldn’t imagine that Richard was even aware of what he said or how he said it), “you’ll be fine, Richard. Look at me.” For a long moment, Richard stared blankly into the fire, chest heaving and skin pallid. Till swallowed, reaching out to pat his cheek again and relaxing his shoulders when Richard finally turned his head to look in Till’s general direction. “I’m right here, Richard. I won’t go anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy this part, please leave kudos and a comment! I love reading every comment that I receive :) Please take care and stay safe!


	11. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all wanted it, and here it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worry about these next few chapters, but I hope you all enjoy them haha. 
> 
> If you enjoy this part, please leave a kudo and a comment! I love reading every comment :)

The fire burned down to cinders eventually, and Richard’s hazed murmurings died down into the occasional soft snore. His full weight leaned into Till’s shoulder, but Till didn’t mind in the least, simply because it allowed him to be sure that Richard was simply sleeping and not a fire-warmed corpse. Richard looked terrible in the least, his hair sticking up unceremoniously and expression wrinkled into unconscious misery, but Till settled on letting him rest. Nothing he said or did would better Richard’s condition anyway, so it was pointless to do anything but silently stoke the fire. 

It seemed impossible now for Richard to have run off with Dame, unless another wolf had taken after her and brought her to the ground. Wolves didn’t hunt horses, though, so Till ruled through that one quickly, and a deep guilt settled into his chest at the realization that Richard hadn’t run off with Dame. Instead, he was brought to the conclusion that Richard had run for his life, or had been dragged off by one of them. He was roughed up enough, with shallower marks torn through his clothes and blood staining down one side of his chest. Till was appalled, nearly, simply at the thought that Richard had gotten free and then trudged through the snow with a gaping neck wound to tend to. He would have laughed if he weren’t exhausted and shivering, but he knew he’d have to mention it later - inquire if Richard were some minor god, abandoned by his followers and left to live in solitude. 

“A minor god,” Till murmured out loud to himself, and finally he chuckled gently. “Oh, the world would be so unfortunate.” Richard coughed and leaned forward towards the fire, nearly toppling over entirely before Till braced him with one hand against his chest, the other cradling his arm and sitting him back up, “Easy, easy…” Moving from his spot, Till laid Richard flat on the ground and began shouldering off his cloak, wadding it up and tucking it under Richard’s head. Richard continued to cough and sputter himself awake, eyelids dark and agitated against skin the color of wood-ash. Till crouched beside him, leaning over Richard and surveying the cauterized wounds standing out against his throat like a nauseating eyesore. 

Richard was silent for an uncomfortable duration of time, eventually parting his lips and croaking in a bare whisper, “I’ve died, haven’t I?” For a moment, he sounded concerningly hopeful, but as Till shook his head, Richard offered a prolonged groan, turned his head away, and stared blankly into the flames. “I’m sure I should be relieved…” Shifting where he lay, Richard ground his teeth together and sneered, tucking his hand into his side to alleviate the pain as he settled into a more comfortable position, “If I had opened my eyes in Heaven to see you leaning over me, I would have knelt before the Lord and sought his abandon.” 

Till smiled simply through the nature of it all, collecting up a handful of sticks that he’d left near the entrance and returning to settle them on the smoldering pile. With a few gentle puffs of breath, the flames had soon returned, lapping over Richard’s face in a lively mosaic of orange light. “You know,” Till sniffed and chuckled in the back of his throat, using his boot to sweep the kindling closer to itself, “I’m not sure that’s a very appreciative way to thank a man for saving his life.”

Richard parted his lips, let his words hover in his mouth, and almost immediately swallowed them down. 

“I’m sure the words you’re looking for are _thank you._ ” Looking down to Richard, Till surveyed the other man - frail and desolate as he was - and eventually stopped on his face. Richard turned his eyes towards Till, slowly raising his brows and leaving Till thoroughly unsettled. Despite his discomfort, Till couldn’t bring himself to look away, and he almost convinced himself that the unyielding, snow-white irises around Richard’s pupils sank into a Caspian shade of blue. By the time he blinked and shook his head, Richard had looked back into the fire, drawing in a deep breath and shaking his head. 

“No, they aren’t. This isn’t something I would thank anybody for doing. It’ll kill you,” sitting up, Richard hissed through his teeth, propping his elbows on his arms and using the back of his sleeve to wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead, “It will… it will… it will… Your kindness will be what kills you. It will destroy you. I’m telling you this, and I demand that you listen to me,” Richard pushed himself up to his feet, momentarily leaning against his knees to gain his composure. Soon enough, he stood upright, face unyielding and eyes cold. “This world is a free-for-all. You survived because you fended for yourself, and only for yourself.” Richard paused, swallowing thickly and momentarily tilting his chin up in a gesture towards continuation. He halted himself, however, and turned his eyes down to the ground, “If you fight to save other people… and if you fight to appease everybody in the world,” He leaned his head to the side, gently tapping the blood-smeared and irritated wound creeping across his throat in a sickening rouge, “you’ll die. You’ll die, you’ll die, you’ll die!” 

Till flinched back as Richard shouted at him suddenly, and his head pulled away, eyes snapping shut and arm lifting to shield himself from a strike. When he looked back, though, Richard simply stood there; weary, run down, and panting heavily. His face was shadowed, but Till could make out the unmistakable breaks in the blood that stained his face, tears glimmering in the moonlight that crept through the mouth of the cave like an eavesdropping beacon. Richard staggered, unsteady on his feet as he moved his hands up to run through his hair and grip the strands. When Till stepped forward, Richard turned on him like the wounded animal he was, baring his teeth and stepping back so far that he nearly stood in the fire. 

He looked like a stray dog, in Till’s opinion, chest heaving and shoulders squared forward. His eyes, blown wide and unmoving from Till’s face, were the most disconcerting part - despite the all-consuming dark of the cave, Richard’s pupils were narrowed down to pinpricks, and his hands tightened into fists. It was manic, enough so to startle Till into stepping back into place. 

“What are you talking about?” Till whispered softly, feeling through his pockets and finding a spare strip of cloth he’d torn from his shirt. Gathering up a handful of snow from the doorway, he bundled it into the cloth and stepped around to the fire, kneeling down and letting the warmth of the flames melt the snow into water. With the damp cloth in hand, he stepped towards Richard. Richard moved away from him again, and Till maneuvered him until Richard’s back was towards the mouth of the cave. Even though he had the choice to bolt now, through direct intention by Till, he stayed in place. Richard seemed wary, shoulders shaking and shifting as he felt around for his dagger. Before he could find it, though, Till stood in front of him, lifting the bit of shirt to begin scrubbing at the bloodstains on Richard’s face.

They didn’t come away easily, but Richard didn’t fight against it for very long, and simply reached up to grab Till’s sleeves at the elbows. “What am I on about?” He spoke after a long moment of silence, “What- What am I… You’ll be killed! Just as fast as you’ve come here, the nachzehrer will tear you apart and ravage the flesh from your bones. It’s a ruthless, soulless creature, and you’re treating it like a game! Like it’s a puppy bounding through the snow after a child! You’re going to be killed, you ignorant, worthless, time-wasting fool!” Richard shoved Till’s arm out of the way and beat at his chest, though it hardly prompted Till to do much more than press his heel into the ground. 

“Oh, so be it…” Till shouldered the statements off and reached for a clotted lock of Richard’s hair, rubbing the coal-black strands between the cloth and dislodging the coagulated blood, “So be it, then. I’ll either live to be a hero, or I’ll die with no scorn to my name.” 

The lack of regard seemed to take Richard by surprise, and the wind left his sails in one long, strangled, confused series of mutters. Till placed his hands on Richard’s shoulders and guided him back to the fire, sitting him down and tucking the strip of blood-dampened cloth into his hand. Richard looked dazed, and when Till sighed again, his confusion shifted more into anguish. Till sat down beside him, craned his neck to stare at Richard’s face, and studied each scrape and cut that littered over the painfully regal and almost sickeningly pale visage. Momentarily, his eyes lingered on the irritated splotch of color standing out against Richard’s throat, and only then did he notice a milky-white and rather jagged line that spanned the front of the other man’s skin. Till considered it to be a slit of moonlight, but as Richard swallowed and turned away, the line moved with him. He took a deep breath and trained his eyes back on Richard, and despite his better judgement to drop everything and return to stoking the fire, he felt a question form in his throat, jumping out before he could properly swallow down the poignant inquiry. 

“Why are you so hellbent on whether I survive in this world?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy this part, please leave a kudo and a comment! I love reading every comment :)


End file.
